


A Lady for a Lord

by bottledyarn



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-War, definitely post s08e04, maybe post canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 01:09:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18728626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottledyarn/pseuds/bottledyarn
Summary: “You carry no message. You come in secret. Are you here to kill me?”The war has ended, and Arya Stark arrives at Storm's End in the night.





	A Lady for a Lord

She had barely stepped into the room when he stiffened, lowering the jug he’d been about to pour from. Her steps had been silent, as had the door’s opening and closing. He set the jug down on a small table and leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table rather than turning. 

She stared at his back, wondering. “How did you know?” 

His head sunk downwards, exposing a pale strip of skin between his collar and his hair. His hair was longer now, more like it’d been when they’d first met. 

“How’d I know someone was here, or how’d I know it was you?” 

His grip on the table slackened and tightened, like he was trying to get the best hold he could. 

“Both.” 

He turned around, his hands immediately finding the table’s edge again the moment he was facing her. His expression was just the same as it’d been the day she left him for King’s Landing – half a smile, like a man waiting for execution who’d made enough peace to lay his head down himself. 

“I don’t know,” he said, his eyes cast in shadow, his grimace barely discernible in the dim of his quarters. 

“No one ever knows,” Arya said, stepping further into the room. Gendry’s head lowered again. 

“I heard,” he said, speaking towards the floor. “Savior of the realms again.” 

“Your men were watching for me,” she said. She took another step closer. “Is the savior of the realms not welcome here?” 

“Arya.” 

A thousand barren fields. A wife’s sterile womb. An impotent ruler. Arya stared at the dark outline of his downturned face. He spoke like a man with death’s hand at his throat. His shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath, the whispering air loud enough to hear from across the room. 

“Are you here bearing orders from the throne?” Gendry asked, lifting his head again, his gaze jerking from the floor to her eyes. 

“I take no orders from the throne,” Arya said. 

A grin slipped out from him, and his eyes fell away again, glazing over. 

“I know that,” he said. He released the table, his hands settling at his sides. “I didn’t realize you were also opposed to carrying messages bearing orders for others.”

“Nobody knows I’m here,” Arya said, crossing her arms. It was easier now, in spring garb – lighter, thinner fabrics that shifted and draped over her body to create a shapeless silhouette. 

“I can see that,” Gendry said. “None of the guards who were watching for you noticed you walk through the front gate. Through the main entry. Through the halls. Through my door.” 

She couldn’t help but smirk. His eyes flickered back to hers, but quickly returned to the floor, fixating on the unremarkable stone with a crease between his brows. 

“You carry no message,” Gendry said. “You come in secret. Are you here to kill me?”

A surprised laugh burst out of her. He met her gaze this time, a frustrated frown across his face. 

“Why would I kill you?” 

“You’ve already done half the job,” he said, that voice stripped of body returned again, like ice had crept across his vocal cords. “Why not finish it?” 

“You’re not on my list.” 

“Who is?” 

Arya felt her hand go to her sword. 

“No one,” she said. “No one anymore.” 

Gendry’s head tipped, like if he looked from a different angle, he might see something new, see something that made sense. 

“I’m sure you can find some new names,” he said. He said it like he was offering her something, or like he was placating someone who’d lost something terrible. 

“Of course I will,” she said. 

His grimace returned, fighting against the placid set of his expression he seemed to be trying to produce.

“Of course you will.” 

“I expected this list to take something from me in return,” Arya said. “An eye for an eye.”

“And yet here you are,” Gendry said. “Alive.” 

Arya walked to the decrepit chair by the smoldering fire. She touched the aged back of it, letting her hand trace over the faded fabric, before she sat. 

“You’re a lord, and this is your chair?” 

“It’s still standing,” he said, a little defensively. “I don’t need an ornament, I just want somewhere to sit.”  
She picked at a loose thread on one of the arms. 

“It looks like it could have been beautiful.” 

“It is beautiful.” 

Arya sighed. It wasn’t a very comfortable chair. 

“I want to ask something,” she said, settling her hands over each of the arms. They were stubby – not at all the right length for a lord, especially one like Gendry, but hers fit just so; her fingers draped over the rounded ends as naturally as her hands fit around Needle’s grip. 

“I will try to answer—” 

He cut himself off and his hands curled and uncurled at his sides. He stepped to the side, further away from her, and sat on the edge of his bed facing her. He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees. It made him have to tilt his head as though he were looking up at her from below. 

“I will never be a lady,” Arya said. She shifted forward in her seat, leaning towards him. “But…”

He didn’t wear a grimace now – he looked almost sick, like he was watching an innocent man die. 

“Gendry.” 

“Yes.” 

“I am not a lady,” she said. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. He was looking at the jug now like it could stand up and save him, and she wondered whether it contained water or something else entirely. 

“I cannot be a lady,” she said. She wondered how her own voice sounded to him, if he could decipher as much from her tone as she could from his. “But if you’ll have me, I can be with you nonetheless.” 

He met her eyes. 

“What are you—” 

“I cannot sit in a chamber with ladies in waiting,” she said. He shook his head. “I cannot entertain visitors. I cannot waste away with child again and again to produce an heir. I cannot costume myself for the approval of the elite. I cannot—” 

Gendry stood abruptly. 

She watched him the way you watch a stray dog – at a distance, with tension in your legs in case it didn’t want your attention. He turned and stormed out of the room, leaving the door gaping open behind him. 

There was a feeling in her throat like ice, like the Night King had his hand fixed round it again. If she spoke, she wondered if she might sound like Gendry. 

She stood up, the old chair creaking wretchedly as she did so. It would make better kindling than a chair. She eyed the fire. It did need more wood. 

There were footsteps at the door. A guard stood there with a frown, peering in like he expected to find a murder scene. He spotted her immediately, and his mouth dropped open. He had ghastly teeth, the long and crooked sort that always showed when someone spoke. 

“La—uh,” he hesitated, smoothing a hand down his chest. He jerked his torso in a slight angle downwards, a bow worse than the worst curtsy she’d ever done. “You’re here.” 

“What’s it to you?” she snapped. 

He scratched at his patchy beard. 

“Lord Baratheon…”

The guard frowned, stopping himself again.

“Speak,” Arya said. “What of him?”

“It’s not my place to say, my—” the guard gulped at his words, stopping himself again.

It seemed that Gendry’s guards were not exactly the cream of the crop. 

His flighty eyes landed on the dying fire, and he reanimated, his limbs jerking. “I’ll get more firewood!” he exclaimed. “Good evening, uh…good evening.” 

Arya raised her eyebrows, and the guard stumbled back out the door, his loud footsteps echoing down the hall. And to think Gendry expected his men to notice if she ever passed through. 

She walked to the bedside table and peered down into the tall metal jug. Water. Pity. A drink for the road would have been warm company through the crisp spring night. 

The air in the room shifted, and Arya rolled her eyes, turning around. 

“If you’re here with the firewood, just—” 

Gendry stood in the door, a bundle of something clutched in his hands. 

“Not firewood,” he said. “Did you meet Ehrich?” 

“Must have,” Arya muttered. “Don’t worry, I’m on my way out.”

He didn’t move from the door, his feet planted exactly to its width. 

“I know I’ve caused you pain,” Arya said, stalking closer. “But you’re already returned it, no more is needed to balance the score.” 

The guard’s thumping steps began to approach, but Gendry didn’t turn to look out into the hall. He stepped forward, swinging the door shut with one hand behind him. The other still held the small dark item in his hand. It was clearly something wrapped in cloth, Arya could see that much up close. For she was close; with Gendry stepping forward she could reach out and touch him if she wanted to. If she could. 

He held out whatever it was. He was looking straight at her, but she found that she couldn’t quite look back. She snatched the object, her fingertips buzzing with anger. She’d never had to settle for a consolation prize before. 

“I don’t want your trinkets,” Arya said, untying the scrap of string holding the fabric on. 

Gendry just stood there, his hands limp at his sides. 

Arya unfolded the fabric, her teeth set so tightly that her temples throbbed. The black cloth fell open, and her heart doubled a beat. 

“What is this?” 

“Well, it’s a knife,” Gendry said. 

“I can _see_ it’s a _knife_.” 

Arya let the wrapping fall to the floor and inspected the dagger. It was sheathed in a plain leather, but the grip of it had an ornamental head, difficult to see in the dark. She stared at it, like the wolf’s head carved from metal that stared back at her could explain. 

“What is this?” she asked, tearing her eyes from the wolf. It was shaking in her trembling hands. The last time she hadn’t been able to steady her hands, she’d been facing down death. This didn’t feel much less terrifying. 

“It’s my answer,” Gendry said.

“But—” 

He reached for her, pulling her against him and kissing her, his cheeks cold from going outside and his lips warm and pliant. She couldn’t bear to make herself pull away, but he did pull away, letting his arms loosen so that he held her by her arms, so light that she could step away without any effort.

“I never wanted you to be anything other than what you are,” he said. “If you spend half your days away killing whoever needs killing and a third of your days deciding who needs killing, I will happily wait for the remaining days when we can be together.”

“But—” 

“If you make poor small talk at a feast with an ally, I will sit beside you making even worse. If you never want to bear a child, I will let the Baratheon name die with me. It was never my name to begin with.” 

He licked his lips and paused, his chest heaving. She pressed a hand to his chest; felt the frantic thrum of his heart beneath his skin. It was nearly as fast as her own. 

“You’re a lord,” she said. “I might be what you want, but I can’t be what you need. I’ll…I’ll be your friend if you’ll have me, maybe…maybe your mistress if your lady is only for show, but…” 

“Lady is only a title,” Gendry said. He caught her eyes. His were wide and bright. She didn’t want to imagine what hers looked like. “I’m only a lord by title. I don’t know how to rule over anyone; I just execute the suggestions of people who know better. And while they figure it out, I just live my life. And it isn’t much of a life without you.”

“You want me to be Lady Baratheon?” 

“I want you to be Arya Baratheon,” Gendry whispered. His hands were barely noticeable on her, like those of a ghost. 

“You’re a fool.”

“Baratheons have been known to be fools for love.” 

Arya swallowed. The wolf dagger was growing slippery in her sweaty palms, and she tightened her grip on it, her knuckles dragging against the heavy fabric over Gendry’s torso. 

“I don’t want a lady,” he said. “I just want you.”

“You’re a fool,” Arya breathed. 

Gendry’s mouth parted, like he had more to say, more he could say to convince her. She reached up, linking her hands behind his neck, dagger held awkwardly in one hand, and pulled, bringing his face down to hers. His lips met hers in a smile, then with a gasp, like he was beginning to believe it. 

“Is that a yes?” Gendry asked, barely moving his mouth from hers. 

“Yes.” 

He sank to the ground, pulling her with him to their knees. 

“I thought you would haunt me forever,” Gendry said, grasping at her waist, nearly too tight, like he thought she might not be real. “I thought I needed to tell the guards, in case one day I saw you were here and somebody else had to be able to tell me I was imagining you.” 

“I’m here,” Arya said. She set the dagger to the side and settled her hands on the sides of his head, her thumbs across his cheeks. 

“I love you, Arya Stark.”

Arya traced a thumb over his lips. She couldn’t pull her gaze from his, the glow from the fading fire flickering in his eyes and glimmering over the tears that never quite seemed to fall. He was a fool. 

“I love you, Gendry Waters.”


End file.
